


Bespoke

by ConnecticutJunkie



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Jane Austen Writes Smut, Just Live Forever in that Happy Bubble, Season 9 Pre- Face the Raven, You Know the TARDIS Put That Book There for Him To Find, implied threesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5351942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnecticutJunkie/pseuds/ConnecticutJunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Jane Austen wrote Clara personalized erotica or anything. It's not like it maybe features a certain Doctor-like character. It's not like the Doctor finds it and reads it.</p><p>Except it is. It's exactly like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovery

Not my property, spoilers for Series 9 ep 09 only (except for one line about Jane Austen in ep 10). Might end up smutty but is definitely silly. Because I don't want to be sad anymore =( And I rewatched Mummy on the Orient Express and it drives me nuts how much they Eyefuck each other

 

~Bespoke~  
~~~~

There was something off about the bookshelf just to the right of the TARDIS' main door. Exactly at eye level- his eye level that is, not much, much closer to the floor where Clara's eyes tended to be. Clara would sometimes rearrange the books when she got bored (previously during his Tinkering Time but lately while he sat on the steps and played his guitar.)

It was never a really complex puzzle she gave him. Mostly she would arrange the books so that the first letter of each title would spell out a sentence. The only challenge was finding where the sentence would start and end because she never used all the books. But this was different; something was not quite the same...

"One of these things is not like the other," he muttered, trailing his fingers over the spines until a slim, leather bound journal barely a pinky width thick made him stop. Brown, nondescript, exactly the kind of book designed to not catch his attention and subsequently stood out all the more for it. 

"Clara!" he called, turning to where she was on the other side of the TARDIS, fiddling with the controls authoritatively but probably just watching telly, "You've got your own bookcase, I don't want your books to be bad influences on mine."

Interestingly, when she caught sight of the offending book he was waving, her face first lost all color, and then, as if her blood had decided its exit had been too hasty and therefore suspicious, decided to return all at once until her face resembled a cherry. A particularly wide cherry. 

Either she was malfunctioning again or... "You're embarrassed!" he deduced, and brought the book closer to his chest in case she tried to nick it. The cover was plain and he took a quick peek inside to see that it was handwritten. 

"Nope, nuh uh, not at all, what makes you think that, ha?" Clara was malfunctioning. Her words were coming out of her mouth at an extraordinary rate.

"Look at you! You're as red as a beet! You're beet red!" He tried to distract her with words and arm waving as he took a few precautionary steps away, tucking the book into one of his coat pockets. It was magnanimous of himself, he thought, that he didn't tell her that her face was also as round as a beet, even though it was. 

Instead of following, she stood rooted to the spot, her hands clenched against the TARDIS console so hard her knuckles were white. Which made sense, as most of her blood was still in her facial area. He took in her rapid respiration, the up-up-up quiver of approaching hyperventilation, until he realized it was probably not polite of him to keep his eyes on that area of her anatomy for so long. Not polite, and certainly not safe. Certainly not with that jumper she was wearing that was too thin and too tight to be of any practical warmth. 

"It's just a book," she said, and he watched as she watched his eyeline, then seemed to gather her courage and formulate an offensive plan. Usually he loved her cleverness and observational prowess...just maybe not when it was aimed at him. 

Yes, she was definitely on the offensive, he thought, as she let go of the console and drew herself up to her full height (ha). She took a few steps toward him, not breaking eye contact, and suddenly he felt like prey. Her hips were swaying as she walked, and it might have made him stumble a bit as he backed away. 

"Just a regular, old book," she drawled as she mounted each step. At the penultimate one she paused and leaned over the railing, resting her chin on her hands and blinking up at him with eyes that were only pretending to be innocent. "It's not like Jane Austen wrote me personalized erotica or anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~to be continued~
> 
>  
> 
> Chapters will be very short, because I'm writing this on an iPad 1.0 and would rather post in bits in case this ancient tech dies


	2. Burgeoning Arousal

Chapter 2 

~~~

"Erotica," the Doctor said, attempting to sound nonchalant and knowing he was failing spectacularly. "Derived from the Greek 'Eros,' God of Love-"

"Yeah, everybody knows that," Clara interrupted, and ascended the final stair. She took a few steps towards him; in return, he decided it was prudent to take a few steps back. No need to infringe upon each other's personal space when having a conversation about erotica. It was probably not proper, he was sure there was something written about it in an etiquette book somewhere, no need to chance it. 

"But this isn't so much about love as about," here Clara paused and looked upwards, her tongue briefly peeking out as she searched for the right word amidst the TARDIS' architecture, "physical satisfaction."

He suspected her plan was to make him so uncomfortable she could slip her hand into his pocket and retrieve the journal/book/Pride & Pornography whilst he was distracted by her womanly charms. It was a quite good plan, if he did say so, because he was highly uncomfortable. Especially in the trouser area. Not enough for her to notice yet (hopefully) but his very imaginative brain had allowed him to picture Jane and Clara sitting closely together, surrounded by pots of ink and scribbling words like 'heaving bosom' and 'sexy magician' into the aforementioned book, Clara snickering at somehow working 'bigger on the inside' in there. Perhaps Clara would be overly exuberant at finally finding the right place to fit it in, and hug Jane in that tactile way she had. But her hand might knock over one of the ink pots in doing so, and poor Jane Austen's dress would be ruined. Clara would tut over the spill, pressing her hands all over Jane's lap, trying to soak up the ink with her much less valuable 21st century blouse. Which, yes, of course meant that Clara was now kneeling in just her brassiere between Jane Austen's legs, and yes, Jane Austen was always known for her cleverness too and would point out the futility, and perhaps the dress should just come off, and the two of them should have a lovely bath and help each other remove all traces of ink from their skin...

Oh. Oh, he should stop. He should really, really stop. Because he was feeling a little...tumescent...in his gentleman's area. Maybe Clara wouldn't notice. He backed up a few more steps and felt his legs hit a bench. The reading bench! Yes! The TARDIS was a lovely, beautiful creature who had saved his hide many times before and the surge of love he felt for her just now would hopefully stem other surges. 

With a grand flourish of his arm (misdirection!), he theatrically sat on the bench and casually (yes! unceremoniously! nothing to see here!) crossed his legs. He was still flailing his arms about, of course, patting his pockets for a monocle and tossing it from one hand to another. (See the shiny copper thing! Nothing untoward in my trousers!)

He looked up at Clara to see if all of this had worked. She was still a few feet (metres? cubits? what were the humans using these days) away from him, hip perched on the railing, arms crossed, legs crossed, just looking very cross all over. She must have figured out that he had figured out her plan. Which meant she was planning an entirely new plan. 

It shouldn't have made him harder. But it did. 

 

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank James May for the 'gentleman's area' euphemism. Don't know why but I felt compelled to have Twelve use it


	3. Monocled Trouser Snake

Chapter 3  
~~~

The Doctor knew she had a plan when her mouth curved up into a smirk. "What's the monocle for?"

"Reading?" he questioned back sarcastically. The 'duh' was silent. 

"Never seen you use a monocle to read before. Do you think that there's tiny pornographic drawings in the margins, or are you just hoping for that?"

The surprise caused said monocle to fall from its perch in his eye socket and land somewhere in the vicinity of his gentlemen's area. He might as well have made a sign in an arrow shape that said, 'Please, Clara, have gander at my genital region won't you?' It would have at least been more subtle. 

"Illustrated books do have their charms," he managed. "And I've always been a connoisseur of fine art. But with that being said, I've seen your doodles and unless Miss Austen was the one doing the drawing, I can't put much faith in your artistic endeavor."

He really did love the two spots of angry color high on her cheeks. Perhaps too much, because he was somewhat distracted by his enjoyment of them to notice that she was closing in on him fast. And that was...yes! hand! hand! Clara's hand. Clara's hand was retrieving his monocle for him which, as he had previously noted, had fallen onto the bench near his gentleman's area, but oh...oh.

"Oh," he moaned and he realized it was aloud, and "oh," he did not care he moaned it again, for Clara had brushed her fingers along the ridge of his gentleman's bit and was sliding down to his gentleman's bobs and then she picked up the bloody monocle and her hand was gone and-

"Oops," she breathed, pouting and using some kind of invisible laser beam field to keep him from moving his eyes away from hers. "I dropped it."

"Ohwhataterribleshame," he exhaled. He took a deep, shaky breath and tried to remember that there was a Plan, and she had one and he had one, so maybe there were two Plans, but suddenly his only Plan involved Getting Clara to Maybe Touch His Bits Again, okay, because he was only a man (albeit an alien one) after all. 

They continued to stare at each other for approximately 4.35674333 seconds, give or take, until he realized he should do something if he wanted his New Plan to work. 

"Would you, perhaps, be so kind, as to pass me my monocle again?" 

Clara only tilted her head 1/18 of a cubit to the left. He realized his glaring error 1.69434 seconds later, when she added an eyebrow lift. "Please?" he added, and he didn't mean to sound so desperate, so raspy, so *Scottish.*

She leaned forward until her hair was falling around his face. Laser eyes. "I like the sound of that. Almost like begging."

He couldn't contain himself (though luckily his trousers were still containing other parts of him). "Yeah, you would like that wouldn't you." Counter-attack lasers of his own to break the stare allowed him to tilt his head so that he could whisper in her ear, "egomaniac."

He quite literally nipped any retort she had in the earlobe. Was it a sign that his Plan was working when she lost the ability to stand and resorted to straddling his lap? He liked to think so. He let go of her earlobe. "Now fetch me my monocle."

Clara let out a shaky breath and a throaty little laugh. "What's gotten into you, Doctor?"

Her hand slid down again, tracing against the lines in his tartan trousers, just a smidgeon away from his gentleman's bit. "You, Clara," he choked out, as Scottish as he'd ever been, "you." 

"Hmmm," she purred, and fully palmed his cock yes his cock damn it, he couldn't be a gentleman any longer, Clara Oswald was straddling his lap and squeezing his now rock hard cock. 

Until she stopped. 

He almost whimpered. Almost. He was still a Time Lord, after all. He had a modicum of control over himself. The tiniest, most minuscule, wee-est modicum. 

"Oh," she frowned, eyebrows knitted together. "I was actually rather hoping it was you who would be getting into me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut-hog has poked its head out of its hole, and decided there would be no more smut winter; its coming out early. My apologies to those of you looking for characterisation and plot =)


	4. Carnal Flood Gates

“Clara,” he said, although it was more of a hiss, and almost a threat, which he knew was not a nice thing to be doing, threatening nice pretty ladies when they were sitting on his lap but he couldn't help it. It's not like Clara had ever made him a card that said anything about such. “Clara,” he said again, because he forgot what point he was going to make when he remembered all over again that Clara just told him she wanted him inside of her.

It was no use. He was never going to be able to string words together as long as her hand and nimble little fingers were creating friction on his cock. He caught her hand in his and brought it up to her mouth, turning it over so he could run his face along the soft skin of her inner wrist and forearm. “Clara Oswin Oswald,” he murmured, lightly kissing her name against her and watching the goosebumps on her skin rise.

“Not really my middle name,” she whispered, without any real scolding. Her eyes had closed, and a pleased little smile was playing on her lips. 

“Clara My Clara Oswald,” he tried again, pressing a final kiss to the back of her hand before setting it down on his thigh.

“Yeah, I like that one better,” she said, still in her closed eye dream state. He covered both her hands with his.

“Look at me.”

One eye peeked open (did she think he was planning an elaborate ruse?) followed eventually by the other. “Do you remember the last Christmas with Bowtie Me?”

“Of course. It's not exactly an event I could forget, y'know?”

“Well, did you know I wanted to bend you over that holiday table and hike that little tartan skirt up?”

He felt her shuddering intake of breath as his confession hit her, and he could swear she rolled her hips a bit. “No, I didn't know. I had certainly hoped.”

“But then Trenzalore happened, and I was alone. For so long, so very long. That - carnal- part of me, it had to atrophy. And even once you came back, and I was in a new body, my mind was still accustomed to self-denial.”

The Doctor watched as her brows knitted together and her face fell a bit. “So, are you saying that you became asexual and now you're stuck that way?”

“No, Clara,” he smiled, in what he hoped was more Wickedly Seductive than Creepy Stick Insect, “it means that you better be absolutely sure you want me inside you, because once you open the flood gates, I'm not going to be able to stop fucking you for a very long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, very short I know. I wasn't able to post it before my holiday with no wifi and I hadn't been able to catch up with the finale ep yet. More to come soon (heh). I think I might just go full on filthy with this one.


	5. Come the Fuck in or Fuck the Fuck Off

~~

 

He could feel the way she shuddered against him, felt his self control slip as she fisted her hands in his jumper and pulled him closer to her. “Say it again, Doctor.” She made his name/title sound like a euphemism for Sexy Beast, which he quite enjoyed. Perhaps _too_ much. He'd been a monk, kind of, at one point, and had lived like one for the last thousand years, but he knew what happened at Gentleman's Clubs and he was beginning to suspect that Clara had paid her way through Uni as one of the UK's premiere lap dancers. She'd taken to trousers a bit more lately, but today she was in another of her skirt plus tights combos that had been the subject of many hours of, well he'll call it meditation now, just to be courteous, when he'd first been stuck on Trenzalore. It was an equation he meditated on a lot, actually. (Skirts+tights)^heels=xhoursmentalwanking. He could feel the heat of her now, radiating out like a tiny supernova, and he completely lost the plot. 

“Say what again?” Even with the amazing prowess of his mind he'd actually forgotten what they'd been talking about. She probably thought he was teasing her. Her hips rolled against his and he groaned. Good, let her think he was playing mind games. It was her own fault for wearing those heeled oxfords. He loved those heeled oxfords. The front said 'I know when to use 'who' vs 'whom'' and the backs said, 'Let's leave these on while we shag.' He couldn't help himself; he ran his hand down her stockinged leg, hooked his fingers behind her knee, and pressed her even harder against himself. He let his other hand wander to the small of her back, where he was quite pleased to discover he could remove her blouse from the waistband of that inflammatory skirt and feel her skin directly. She was warm against his fingers, and just a bit sweaty from their ah, exertions. 

Clara used his jumper as leverage and pulled him up a bit so they were eye level. “Tell me again how much you want to fuck me.”

That he could do. With aplomb. “Clara Oswald, I would like to ravish you from when the first two hydrogen atoms fused to make your sun until the day it winks itself out.”

“No.” Her hips stopped their slow, agonizing rocking. He whimpered, and was secretly glad all the other Time Lords were far, far away because he was not really a paragon of Intellect at this point. 

“Don't stop, why'd you stop?” Fantastic, his mouth was whinging without consulting his brain now. Clara Oswald had done it, she'd turned his brain into pudding with her frottage skills. 

“Say it, you daft man, say you want to fuck me!” She rested her forehead against his and sighed in frustration, then pulled back and gave him a wry little smile. He wanted to kiss each dimple it made but held himself still. In a much calmer manner, she leaned back in and ghosted a kiss on his lips that should've been nothing major but instead made him quiver all down his spine. “The teacher gives you permission,” she whispered, and then bit his lower lip which caused his pelvis to go rogue and and press up into her, “to use the naughty words.”

Ah. That's what Miss Clara Oswald, sweet little English teacher, often-times world(s) saver, Earth's current best lap dancer, wanted. She wanted to hear her Doctor use very un-doctory words. Oh, she was in for it then.

“You want me to talk dirty, is that it, Clara?” He ran his tongue up her neck, tasting her and also feeling how her pulse fluttered excitedly below her skin. 

“Yes,” she breathed, moving her hands from his jumper to his hair as he continued to monitor her vital signs by nipping and licking down the other side of her neck. 

“I am a master of many languages, you know,” he murmured into the hollow between her collarbones. 

“Yet I'm still not hearing a single foul thing,” she panted, arching her back so that he now had access to her (unfortunately still bloused) chest. He thought about sonicing the buttons, but he had no idea where his glasses had gone to, and he thought about actually unbuttoning them the way a normal person would, but they were so very teeny, and the TARDIS had a vast wardrobe. Plus, if she wanted to hear him curse, then by all the stars in the universe, he would give it to her (oh he would give it to her, alright). That he could do. With fucking aplomb. 

“This fucking blouse is in the fucking way and I've been wanting to see those glorious tits of yours since the first time you shoved them in a corset,” he growled (even if that was technically Clara Oswin Oswald, Governess, and not Clara His Clara Oswald, High Seductress of the Terran System). 

She giggled as he ripped the blouse open, and he asked the patch of skin between her breasts, “Dirty enough for you?”

As if in answer, her breasts jiggled with another little laugh. “Oh, Doctor, you don't even know how dirty it can be.” She somehow used some kind of yoga magic to twist out of his hold and then she was sitting beside him, legs propped in his lap, blouse torn open, and hair askew. “After all, you haven't even read the book.”

He stared at her (heaving) bosom. “What book?” 

 

~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hybrid is the Doctor and Malcolm Tucker. Spoilers! =) J/k. Thank you so much for reading


End file.
